


Private Entries

by Goldenheartedrose



Series: Tumblr ficlets [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenheartedrose/pseuds/Goldenheartedrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John tries to come to terms with Sherlock's death.  He decides to write Sherlock notes in the way of private blog entries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Entries

The first few weeks after Sherlock’s fall were tough.  John knew that was really the understatement of the century.  At first, he didn’t know how to function.  Sarah gave him time off from the surgery – nearly threatening to fire him if he didn’t comply.  So he took the time, but that only made things worse.  He began to see Ella on a weekly basis, then twice a week.  It didn’t help.  He visited Sherlock’s grave, but something about that seemed wrong.

Well of course it was wrong, his inner voice screamed at him.  Sherlock shouldn’t be in that grave.  Oh why, oh why did he jump?

Every time he met with Ella, he was reminded of their first few meetings nearly 2 years ago.  It seemed like a lifetime ago.  Again, he found himself stuck in a similar position.  Traumatized.  Not by what he’s seen but by the emptiness that enveloped his entire being.  And stuck.  He had found it difficult to write back then, and he found it to be no different even now. 

What’s the fucking point anyhow, John thought.  It wasn’t as though he had any readers anymore.  The world  operated under the false assumption that Sherlock was a fraud.  But he had so many thoughts, so many emotions floating around in his head.  So perhaps writing may help – even if these entries did end up being only for his eyes.

 

> **_Private Entry #1_ **

> _It’s been three weeks since I watched you jump off the rooftop of St. Bart’s, Sherlock, and I still can’t figure out why you did this.  Why you had to leave me.  Why you had to lie to me._
> 
> _You’re not a fraud._
> 
> _I miss you._

 

The following week had been a restless one.  John had attempted to go back to work, with Sarah’s blessing, thankfully, but had been largely unfocused, barely able to show his usual amount of empathy toward his patients.  Most of them understood, but at the same time, it was infuriating to be so off his game. 

He missed the cases.  He missed the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he and Sherlock chased criminals through the streets of London.  His life would never be the same. 

 

> **_Private Entry #2_**
> 
> _I have too many emotions and thoughts swirling around in this stupid head of mine.  I know you were never a man for much sentiment.  You would likely laugh at me, call me an idiot if you were to hear me say these words aloud.  I’m sorry that I didn’t say them while you could still hear them, derisive laugh and all._
> 
> _I miss you.  You were my best friend.  I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else, and I daresay that I will never feel the same depth of emotion with another human being again.  There isn’t a word in English for what you and I had. At least, I don’t think there is.  If there is, I haven’t encountered it.  You were – no, are my heart.  You’re my family._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _I wish you could come back to me._

John wasn’t sure what to do.  He could easily afford the rent on his place on Baker Street, what with the amount that Mrs. Hudson was charging him, plus the fact that Mycroft had paid the remainder of Sherlock’s portion of the rent through the end of the year.  But this place – it had so many memories.  Should he remain here and torture himself, or was it wiser to move out? 

For now, he determined, he needed to put away as much of Sherlock’s belongings as possible.  There remained loads of chemistry equipment in the kitchen, God-knows-what in the fridge and freezer.  So one dreary Thursday afternoon, John set to work cleaning the flat.  It took hours to sort it all, pack up what needed to be packed up and shove it all into Sherlock’s room.

Once finished, though, John felt a bit relieved.  No longer did he need to look at the little things, like Sherlock’s “friend”, the skull, and wish that he were still here.  The violin now resided in a near-empty cupboard.

The one thing that John couldn’t stand to put away was the coat.  That remained in John’s room.  He brought it out every so often to take a deep breath of its scent – of Sherlock’s scent that remained.  At least, he imagined that it smelled like Sherlock.  After six weeks of this, it no longer smelled as strongly of Sherlock’s soap and chemicals.  

And the scarf… John began to wear it with his own coat once it started becoming cool outside.  Somehow, he felt Sherlock wouldn’t have minded. 

 

> **_Private entry #3_**
> 
> _You are an arsehole, Sherlock.  Why did you leave me here? I could have helped – I could have –_
> 
> _I miss you, you arrogant sod._
> 
> _Come back to me._
> 
> _I know that’s impossible._
> 
> _I miss you._

 

John knew that wishing for Sherlock to return was ridiculous and pointless.  That didn’t make him wish any less.

His appointments with Ella weren’t helping.  She kept asking pointless questions like “how are you?” and trying to evaluate his emotions and the relationship that he had had with Sherlock.

“Were you together?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me, John.”

“He was my best mate.  But he was more than that.  He was – like family.  Like a brother I never had.”

“Were you lovers?”

“No.  Everyone assumed – but no.”

“Did you want to be?”

“No – I don’t know.  What the hell does that matter now?” John’s voice betrayed a quiet tension. This wasn’t the time – well, it would _never_ be the time to talk about such matters.  It was pointless now. 

“Exposing the truth, how we truly feel about a situation sometimes makes it easier to come to terms with it, and perhaps, move on.”

_Move on._ If there was one thing John Watson had not done, it was move on.  Oh, sure, he had packed away Sherlock’s belongings, and his head was a little clearer now that work was steady at the surgery again.  But how would he ever move on?

It was as though his life had halted, and he was thrown back to not just two years ago when he and Sherlock had met, but back to before he had gone off to war.  How was he ever supposed to be just a doctor, a general practitioner, again? How was he supposed to go back to living a nice, normal, boring life?

 

> **_Private Entry #4_**
> 
> _I hate this.  You would have said “Bored!”  Indeed, that is what I am.  I am utterly bored.  How do I go back to a normal life without you, Sherlock? How is that possible?_
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _I need you._
> 
> _I…_

_  
_

It had been six months since Sherlock Holmes took his final breath.  John Watson’s life had returned to semi-normalcy.  He still had tea with Mrs. Hudson, which did nothing but remind him of the life he would never have again.  But it was fine.  It was all fine.  She needed his presence as much as he needed hers. 

John began cataloguing. It seemed fruitless, he knew, but perhaps going through Sherlock’s things – now John’s things, according to the will he had left behind – perhaps it would bring him to some conclusion. Perhaps there was some clue in all of this to explain why Sherlock had taken his own life.  John had initially been stunned by the enormity of Sherlock’s possessions.  He wondered, once the sum had been deposited into his bank account, why Sherlock had even needed someone to share a flat with in the first place.  Then it occurred to him – it wasn’t about the money.  It was, perhaps, entirely about companionship.  Loneliness had taken a toll on Sherlock.  Even Mike had attested to this one night in the early days, when John had needed a break from Sherlock’s eccentricities. 

John hadn’t believed in fate before.  Now he did.  Fate had intervened in his life, and as heartbroken as he was now, as much he missed his best mate, he couldn’t deny that Sherlock Holmes had changed his life for the better.

Maybe moving on didn’t mean forgetting.  Maybe moving on just meant putting one foot in front of the other, as cliché as that might be.

If that was the case, John Watson had begun to move on. 

 

> **_Private Entry #5_**
> 
> _Dear Sherlock,_
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _I am forever grateful to you._
> 
> _I owe you so much._
> 
> _Thank you._

 

The next morning, John logged on and noticed that his private entry had a comment.  At first, his heart began to pound out of his chest.  These were supposed to be _private_ , to be password-protected.  He checked the blog for the lock symbol, and found it was still intact.  Relieved, he clicked onto the entry, penned by an anonymous reader, to read the comment.

 

> _Oh, John – it took me less than 15 seconds to correctly deduce your password.  Do try and be more careful._

> _P.S. I’m not dead.  --SH_

 

 


End file.
